Chess
by patchwork-robe
Summary: After the tragic death of one of his teammates, Roach is diagnosed with PTSD. As his friends and family help him through it, Roach realizes something important- you can't win the game without losing some of your own.
1. Pawns

War is like a game of chess.

Everyone works together to protect one common goal, while trying to capture the opponent's. You can't leave your king open, or the game is over. You lose. There is no compromise.

And soldiers are the pawns.

We go forward, knowing we may never come back, to protect what we're fighting for. But there's always sacrifice; someone has to go so another move can be made.

You can't win the game without losing some of your own.

* * *

><p>These thoughts ran through Roach's head as he watched Meat fall to the dirty, littered ground of Rio de Janeiro's favelas. Everything moved in slow motion; Meat's cry for help; his body hitting the ground with a loud thump; the satisfaction on the militant's face as he reloaded. Roach emptied three bullets into the man's body before he could fire again.<p>

And then everything registered with two beats of his pounding heart.

Meat was gone.

His best friend, his brother-in-arms, his confidant… gone.

Roach felt a tear stroll down his cheek, clearing a path on his dirt-covered face for more tears to follow. His surroundings didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. He was so stricken down with grief, he was tempted to just throw himself in front of the line of fire.

But Roach's fury kept him alive.

Meat would not die for nothing. Roach killed six militants with one magazine, then sprinted to Meat' body and pulled off one of his tags. He thought for a moment, and decided he didn't want to leave Meat's body to rot on the ground.

He carried the corpse to a field just outside the favela, sprinkled with thirsty flowers reaching toward the summer sun. As he laid down the body, Roach removed the cross necklace from around his own neck and placed it around Meat's. As he struggled to remember the Lord's Prayer, Roach hoped Meat was a religious man, because he no doubt deserved Heaven after the Hell they'd been living in.

* * *

><p>Two weeks after Meat's death, Roach sat in MacTavish's office. The air-conditioned room was a relief compared to the scorching desert outside. The sergeant soaked in the cool air as much as he could, because he had no idea how long he would be there for.<p>

MacTavish walked into the room and closed the door behind him. He set down a bottle of water in front of Roach, who opened it and drained half of it quickly.

"So," MacTavish began. "How have you been, Roach?"

Roach set down the bottle of water on the desk with a loud thump. "Cut the formalities, captain. We both know what this is about."

MacTavish sighed. "Roach, I know what's it's like to lose someone so close to you, believe me. But you have to learn to move past it-"

"Are my training scores dropping?"

"What? No, but-"

"Do you think I can't watch the other guy's backs in the field?"

"No, Roach, but-"

"Then I really don't see what the issue is."

"The issue is that you're not yourself, Roach!" MacTavish stood up. "You passed your psych exam, and your training scores are still excellent, but you aren't the same person you used to be.

And that… well, it worries me." The horizontal lines on his forehead gave Roach the proof.

"With all due respect, sir, you shouldn't concern yourself with my personality. You've got other things to worry about."

"Yes, but when your personality threatens the mission, then it is my job to worry!" MacTavish walked towards the wall opposite Roach so he couldn't see his face. He muttered the next sentence. "I'm taking you off of active duty for the time being."

"But I passed my psych exam!"

MacTavish turned around, impatience clear in his face. "By some miracle, I know! But I don't think you're fit for duty, and frankly, I don't know if you will be ever again unless you work this out! I'm ordering you to therapy until the counselor and I agree you're ready to come back."

"Sir-"

"That's enough, Roach. You're dismissed."

Roach stood up and stormed to the door. Without looking back, he exited the office and leaned against the doorframe.

His best friend… gone.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So after writing a humorous one-shot, I thought I would try the opposite end of the spectrum and attempt a multi-chapter, more serious fic. I hope you enjoy!_


	2. Storms

Roach stood in his room, throwing random clothes into his duffel bag. He was going home. Roach knew this day would come, but he figured it would either be when his tour was up or he was in a body bag. Whatever. He would go to therapy, prove to MacTavish he didn't have an issue, and then come back to the base. He thought of what the captain had said.

"But I don't think you're fit for duty, and frankly, I don't know if you will be ever again unless you work this out!"

Roach blinked hard to keep the tears back. The last thing he needed was for Chemo to come in and see him crying like a little girl. He quickly attempted to close the bag, but the zipper caught on the fabric and stopped. Roach tugged at it harder than necessary, and when the zipper came loose, it left a hole in the bag. Roach became angry quickly and swore as he threw the bag at the wall, a small metal object coming out of the hole. As he inspected the object, the emotions he was holding back broke past his defenses and a sob escaped his lips. It was Meat's dog tag.

CHRISTENSEN

ALEX, M

256-82-1853

A POS

METHODIST

Roach slipped the piece of cold metal into his chest pocket. It radiated a heat that spread over his chest, comforting him. He knew that Meat was gone, but right now it felt as though part of him was still with Roach.

Roach walked down the hallway, doing his best to hide his disappointment at being sent home. His footsteps dragged across the tiles, creating an annoying, shuffling sound. Luckily, everyone was outside training, so nobody could tell Roach to knock it off.

As he opened the door at the end of the hall to walk outside and to his plane home, MacTavish rounded a corner, walking quickly.

"Roach!" he called out.

The sergeant whirled around to see the captain standing there with a piece of paper in his hand.

"What is this?" Roach asked, not bothering to add the "sir."

"I took it upon myself to look up a therapist in your area. That's her number."

Roach looked at the telephone number, the captain's slanted handwriting running together, making it difficult to read. He noticed something.

"There's two numbers on here," Roach commented.

MacTavish shifted. "Yeah… that second one is, well, mine. I just thought… maybe if you needed something or someone to talk to who understands what you're going through better, well then… yeah."

Roach almost smiled as his captain struggled with words. MacTavish always seemed so eloquent at other times; it was strange to see him like this.

"I appreciate it, sir."

The Scot smiled. "Have a nice flight, Roach. No sarcasm intended. I hope to see you soon." MacTavish turned and walked back the way he had come.

Roach sighed. Why was he feeling a small spark of happiness in him, despite being sent home and Meat's death? He frowned as he opened the door and walked out into the scorching summer sun.

* * *

><p>Ascension Island is 1,400 miles east of Brazil and 1,000 miles west of Africa, smack dab in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean. It is a British colony, and there is a Royal Air Force base on the island. With a population of only 800 people, not counting those stationed on base, its even existence was known by few. Ascension Island's remote location and anonymity made it the perfect base for the Task Force 141.<p>

Roach thought of his mother and sister as the plane rose above the small island. His mother, Juliet, still lived in Ohio, where she had remained even after her husband had died and her children had grown up. Roach's older sister, Alexis, had a job as a journalist in New York, where she lived with her husband and 2-year-old son, Matthew Gary Sanderson. Roach hoped that he had a daughter he could name after his sister someday to show his appreciation. Gary's sister, although only two years older than him, had always looked after him as if he was her own son. It wasn't that Juliet was incapable of raising her own son; Roach's mother adored him. When Joseph Sanderson, Gary's father, died when Roach was only 12, Alexis, who had been close to her father, took it upon herself to make sure nothing happened to her little brother. She had thrown a fit when Roach had joined the Marines.

Roach sighed and reclined his seat backwards. It was going to be a long flight.

* * *

><p>It was like he was viewing Meat's death all over again, except every sense was amplified. The blaze in the eyes of the man that killed Meat was like lightning, the crack as the bullets exited the gun was the thunder, the whistling of air as they flew through the air towards Meats sounded like the wind of a storm…<p>

The "thump" as the bullets hit Meat's body was everything giving in and collapsing.

"You could have saved him, you know," a loud, commanding voice told him.

Roach looked around, but he didn't see anyone.

"You could have moved faster. Or waited less time to recover," the voice said again.

Roach searched frantically around; he wanted to tell the voice to stop.

"But you were selfish. Your own needs came before his. What kind of soldier, friend, man, does that?"

"Shut up!" Roach yelled at the voice. "You don't know what happened! You weren't there!"

"In fact, I was," the voice told him.

Roach was paranoid now. His whole body was shaking, trembling, and he didn't know what to do. He walked over to Meat's body.

"You could have saved me," Meat said.

It was Meat. Meat was the voice. Only it wasn't his own. It was as if someone else was speaking through him.

"Why didn't you save me, Roach?" Meat whispered. "You could have, but you didn't. Why didn't you, Gary?"

At the use of his first name, Roach made a strange noise somewhere between sobbing and screaming. He could have saved him. He could have saved Meat…

"Sir?"

Roach's eyes flew open, and he found himself staring into the eyes of a flight attendant. He tried to take control of his breathing before he tried out words.

"Yes?" His voice cracked.

"Are you alright? You were making a lot of noise," the woman showed both irritation and worry in her eyes.

"Um, yeah. I'm fine," Roach lied.

"Well then, I'm sure the other passengers would appreciate it if you would keep it down," she whispered somewhat shrewdly. She walked down the aisle quickly, despite her high heels. Roach had to stop himself from getting up and throwing his fist into that oh-so-concerned face.

_Bitch_, he thought.

* * *

><p>MacTavish looked at his watch as he finished his run. He frowned at how long it had taken him to run a mere three miles. As he walked towards the showers, he checked his cell phone. The message on the screen said he had one missed call.<p>

The Scot called his voicemail, thinking it might be Roach. As the message played out, he realized it wasn't Roach, but a telemarketer. MacTavish groaned as he put the phone away.

He was seriously concerned about the sergeant. MacTavish knew first-hand what it was like to lose comrades. Survivor's guilt. His thoughts went back to five years ago in the Altay Mountains, when Zakhaev was still around. He had lost two of his best friends.

And his mentor, Captain John Price.

He missed the man who thought he was a muppet, but watched out for him anyway. The man who had known his father, the late Captain Angus MacTavish. The man who had sacrificed himself for "Soap."

MacTavish threw open the locker room door with a little more aggression than necessary. Price shouldn't have sacrificed himself. He was a more valuable pawn than me. MacTavish would be damned if he let someone die for him again.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Chapter two! Please leave your thoughts, it really means a lot to know what people think. Thank you!_


	3. Omissions

Roach sighed as the taxi pulled up to the small, yellow house in the suburbs. He hadn't told his mother he was coming back, and he feared for her reaction at his need for therapy. Juliet Sanderson was an intelligent woman- Roach had been homeschooled until high school- but the sergeant didn't think she would understand what he was going through. His mother often fretted over him, worrying herself sick even if Gary so much as sneezed. Only God knew what she would do if she found her son needed therapy. He didn't want his mother to worry over him. Roach was also ashamed at his need for therapy; in his mind, it made him weak. Roach had joined the military to prove he wasn't the wimpy dork everyone at school took him for; he didn't want it to appear as though he couldn't handle it.

Making a decision, Gary turned to the taxi driver.

"Actually, could you take me to the nearest hotel?"

* * *

><p>Alexis Sanderson was making stir fry in her cozy, second floor apartment in New York City when her brother called.<p>

"Hey, Gar!" she answered. "How've you been?"

"Hey Lexi," her brother responded. "How's Matt?"

"The same as ever," Alexis turned to her son, who had the TV on, but wasn't paying much attention to it. Rather, he was playing with the cabinet door where all of his father's priceless vinyl records were kept. "Always getting into things he shouldn't be." Alexis picked up Matt and placed him on the couch. "So why are you calling me with your cell? Long distance calling rates are expensive, ya goon."

"I'm in the country."

The older Sanderson paused for a moment, then continued walking to the kitchen. "That's great, Gar! Have you gone home yet? Mom called me this morning and she didn't say you were there."

"Um… kinda?" It sounded like a question.

Alexis switched ears with the phone as she moved the stir fry onto a cool oven top. "Uh-oh," she commented. "That didn't sound good."

Standing in the Holiday Inn in Columbus, Ohio, Roach began to pace around his room until he leaned against the doorframe to the bathroom. He was scared to admit this, and it took all his will to mutter out his next ten words.

"Alexis, do you know what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is?"

He heard his sister gasp at the other end of the line. "Gar… I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Hey, can you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Can you please not tell Mom I'm back? I don't want her worrying. You know how she is."

There were a few moments of silence before his sister answered.

"Yeah, bro. Sure thing. And get better, will ya?"

Roach didn't respond as he hung up. Sighing, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and dialed the first number on it.

* * *

><p><em>Four months later<em>

MacTavish walked out of his office with a spring in his step. He had just spoken to Roach's therapist, Dr. Hepburn, and she had told the captain she thought Roach was ready to come back.

The Scot had missed Roach, and he knew the others did too. The sergeant could be a smartass, sarcastic little weasel sometimes, but most of the time he was a kind, generous guy that would do anything for his friends. Or his superiors. MacTavish thought of the time they were in Tian Shan Mountain Range in Kazakhstan. Oh, how the captain had been irritated with the sergeant at first. The kid couldn't jump distances to save his life.

Little did MacTavish know that kid would save his ass an hour later.

The two had grown closer after that. MacTavish became Roach's mentor, although he was only a few years older than him. The American looked up to MacTavish, and the captain looked out for Roach as though he was a little brother.

A little brother MacTavish missed so much that his heart ached.

The Scot had been hesitant before sending Roach home; there was a therapist on base, but Roach wouldn't have the healing effects a visit to family could have. But if Roach went home, he couldn't train, and MacTavish wouldn't get to see him every day.

MacTavish depended on Roach like a car does gas. After a long day of working on training, paperwork, or whatever it was, Roach's sense of humor and approachable atmosphere was a breath of fresh air. The captain looked forward to the conversations they would have while walking to dinner every night. A simple question could turn into deep conversations about life, morals, or what they as soldiers stood for. The Scot loved the times he and the intelligent, yet easygoing, sergeant had together.

In the end, MacTavish had done the unselfish thing and sent him back to America. He took comfort in knowing that Roach was with his family and getting better, despite how much the captain missed him.

* * *

><p>As Roach's plane circled Ascension Island to prepare for landing, he looked at the printed email MacTavish had sent him when he found out Roach was coming back.<p>

_Roach-_

_I heard you're coming back soon. That's grand to hear. The lads have all missed you- especially Chemo, since he doesn't have anyone to spar with anymore. Well, not so much spar as get his arse kicked by._

_Ghost will pick you up when your flight lands. Can't wait to see you._

_-Capt. MacTavish_

Roach allowed himself a smile as he read the email once again. MacTavish never ceased to make him look forward to coming to work. Despite the many ranks between them, Roach considered MacTavish one of his best friends. He knew now, after therapy, that being sent home wasn't personal- his captain really thought that was best for him. And to Roach, doing what was best for someone despite that person's opinion was a sign of true friendship and loyalty. For a captain and friend like MacTavish, Roach was thankful.

His stomach jolted as the plane touched down on the tarmac at the RAF base. After it taxied down the runway and came to a stop, Roach looked out the window at the familiar desert landscape. He smiled.

_It's good to be back._

* * *

><p>Ghost was waiting for him, just as MacTavish said he would be. The balaclava-clad man smiled (at least, Roach thought he did) as the sergeant approached him.<p>

"Good to see you, Roach!" the lieutenant exclaimed in his Cockney accent. "You ready to go back?"

"Hell yeah. Never thought I'd actually miss the desert," Roach replied, a smile in his voice. The pair began walking towards the luggage pick up.

"So you went and saw your mum, then?"

Roach froze. Was there anyway Ghost could know he didn't see her…?

"Um, yeah. She's doing well. Was heartbroken when she found out though."

"I'd expect. PTSD's nothing to mess around with, mate. Ya should've seen MacTavish when he had it."

"How bad was it?" Roach asked quietly. He had known the captain had it at one point, but he didn't know the severity.

"Pretty awful. You can't kill the head of the Ultranationalist Party and lose your entire squadron without some aftereffect. At least Price was there to help him through it."

"Price?" Roach had never heard the name.

"The captain's mentor. About as textbook SAS as you could get: tough, serious, the lot. Knew MacTavish's father; that's one of the things that brought them so close together. He died a few years ago." Ghost paused. "You know, I probably wouldn't even be telling you this if you and MacTavish weren't so damn similar."

Roach scoffed. "Similar? Yeah, right. How?"

"Well, that constant, yet incorrect belief that I'm wrong, to start."

"It's not a belief. You usually are wrong. Plus, everyone thinks that, so it doesn't count."

Ghost bumped his shoulder against Roach. "Piss off. Well, there's that stubbornness… which I suppose counts as both a good and bad thing. Mostly annoying. And intelligence. The two of you sometimes put way too much thought into things. I've never seen two people think about war so much, when really all it amounts to is justified murder."

"You really think that?" Roach asked quietly.

"What would you describe it as, bug?"

Roach thought for a moment. "I don't think we're killing people so much as ideas. Well, of course we're killing people, but with each person that dies, Makarov's idea of a utopian, Ultranationalist-ruled Russia dies a little with them."

Ghost hummed. "Whatever you say, Aristotle. I thought of another thing you and MacTavish have in common."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"You both have ridiculous accents."

"Wha- shut up, Ghost."

* * *

><p><em>AN: I really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. Please leave your thoughts!_


	4. Returns

As Ghost pulled up to the security checkpoint on base, Roach looked out into the distance and saw the buildings on base rising up from the horizon as if to welcome him back. Loose sand on the ground near the tires was gathered up by the wind and blown towards the base, almost mocking Roach as it was carried to the place he wanted to be most at the moment. Although the thought of returning to base and being reminded of Meat slightly startled Roach (despite therapy, grief still stung like bullets in his heart), the sergeant couldn't wait to be back with his friends and have a rifle in his hands.

The jeep was given the all-clear, and the vehicle lurched forward as Ghost hit the gas pedal. Roach busied himself and tried to cure his impatience by toying with the peg on the door that signaled whether or not the door was locked. It made a loud click as Roach pulled it up, and a solid thump as he pounded it back into the door with his fist. He did this for about a minute until Ghost lost it.

"Seriously, Roach, are you going to do that the rest-"

"Hey, Roach! You're back!"

The American looked up from the door and out the open window as a familiar, jubilant voice interrupted the lieutenant. A grin found itself on his face as he recognized it as Chemo's, one of Roach's best friends on the task force. The Canadian had been jogging, but was now sprinting to keep up with the jeep.

"Yeah, man! What're you doing way out here?"

"My gun apparently wasn't clean enough. MacTavish ordered me to run the perimeter."

"Serves you right. You clean it, what, twice a year?"

"Shut up, Roach…"

The sergeant just grinned. "It's good to see ya, Chemo."

Chemo smiled exhaustedly. "You too, Roach. I'll see you back on base." He slowed down back behind the jeep and kept running straight as the vehicle followed the driveway to the right.

As the car approached the cluster of buildings that made up the task force base, several soldiers that were training saw the jeep and waved at Roach. The American greeted them back as the vehicle drew closer and closer to the barracks, and the place he considered a home.

* * *

><p>"I'll let you drop your stuff off, and then you're supposed to go to the rec room. Captain's orders. See ya in a bit, mate." Ghost clapped his hand on Roach's shoulder and left the room.<p>

Roach tossed his bags onto the cot and cleaned off his hands on his jeans. Looking around, Roach noticed that the room seemed to be… different. His eyes were drawn to the bulletin board where letters and pictures of family were hung up. In the lower left corner, pinned up by a tack and slightly hidden behind a sheet of training goals, was a picture of a smiling Meat. The photograph had been taken one day when Rocket was sent a camera by his family. He had spent the entire day taking pictures of everyone and everything on base. Roach sighed as he unpinned the picture and placed right in the middle of the tack board, on top of all the other papers. Smiling to himself, he walked outside into the scorching desert heat.

* * *

><p>It was safe to say that Roach knew the path to the rec room like the back of his hand. He had spent far too many hours playing pool with Meat or getting his ass kicked in Halo by Chemo. Nevertheless, Roach slowed his pace to enjoy the walk, soaking everything that he had missed back in. Oddly enough, there was nobody in sight. Roach looked at his watch. 1600. Unless MacTavish had installed a new training regime while the sergeant was away, this was usually the time when all the guys were either in the rec room, the barracks, or typically, outside doing God-knows-what.<p>

The moment Roach entered to rec room, he froze.

The entire task force was crammed into the small room, holding balloons which they proceeded to throw at him. There was a banner hanging from the ceiling that read, "Welcome back Roach!" with "/Gary" printed in small letters right below it. Someone must have had a remote or something, because all of the sudden music started blaring from the speaker system. Everyone was deafened for a moment, and out of the corner of his eye Roach could see MacTavish motion to turn it down a bit. A chorus of "Welcome back!" was let out by everyone, and Gary couldn't help but smile.

It was later, when Roach and a few other guys were starting to do the Gangnam Style, that MacTavish pulled Roach aside. The captain led Roach to a small kitchen area where they could be alone.

"What is it, sir?" Roach questioned as they walked. "You're not going to tell me I need to go back, are you?" he asked, only half-jokingly.

MacTavish shook his head as he closed the door. "Tech's been searching for a match on a Prisoner 627 since you left. They were finally able to find the bastard in a gulag near Petropavlovsk."

"How long ago was this?"

"About five minutes."

Roach raised his eyebrows. "With all due respect sir, why are you telling me this? Shouldn't Ghost be the first person to know?"

MacTavish sighed. "I just need to know if you're going to be okay on this mission. Meat died going after this intel-" the captain paused to make sure the sergeant was alright, but he remained unfazed- "and I need to know that you're not going to do anything that would compromise the mission because of it."

"Sir, I don't think being reckless and compromising the mission would be the best way to honor my best friend's death. Believe me, I won't do anything stupid."

MacTavish half-smiled. "Good to know, sergeant. I'll see you at briefing in a bit."

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, the Task Force 141 was gathered in the briefing room, anxious to hear what MacTavish and Shepherd had to say. The other men chattered each other, speculating where the hell Prisoner 627 was. Ozone was swearing that he had overheard MacTavish talking to Ghost and that it was a mental hospital in northern Siberia, while Toad told everyone that 627 was a double agent working for the CIA whose cover had been blown, and now he was locked in the basement of the Kremlin's home. Roach was the only one who sat in silence, knowing the actual location of 627, but he decided to keep his mouth shut and not ruin the other guys' fun in speculation.<p>

Without any warning, a door slammed, and Shepherd strolled into the room, paying no attention to any of the men. MacTavish entered behind him, looking almost as nervous as everyone else. Shepherd ordered Archer to turn off the lights, who did so as quickly as possible.

The General pulled up an image of a gulag located in eastern Russia, which projected onto the screen in front of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Roach could see Ozone hand bearcat some money with a rotten expression on his face. "Prisoner 627," Shepherd began. "We believe that's who Makarov has the mad-on for. But we can't get to him." The view panned across the map to a location in the Pacific ocean, and zoomed in.

MacTavish furrowed his eyebrows. "_Oilrigs_, sir?"

Two hours later, the men selected for the mission were boarding the helicopter that would take them to Hawaii, where they would board a submarine. As they rose over the base and flew away, MacTavish stood up and faced the group of soldiers.

"Gents, I hope you're not afraid of the water."

* * *

><p><em>AN: And we finally get back to the story arc! I'm sorry I haven't updated since like, April. I've been really busy with school, sports, etc. But, I'll try my hardest to update more often from now on. Please leave your thoughts, I would love to hear about what you guys think. Don't be afraid to give me some criticism either, I'm always looking for new ways to improve. Thanks for reading!_


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